


Under the Mistletoe

by iamtabbyroad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Desk Sex, F/M, Fluff, I wanted to see if I could write a sex scene?, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamtabbyroad/pseuds/iamtabbyroad
Summary: It was half five on the Friday a week before Christmas and I was slogging through the snow to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with a stack of paperwork that George Weasley had managed to cock up.





	Under the Mistletoe

It was half five on the Friday a week before Christmas and I was slogging through the snow to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with a stack of paperwork that George Weasley had managed to cock up.

I didn’t mind the trip, honestly, though it would likely mean that I wouldn’t clock off until close to seven. Going to the joke shop was a nice break from the tedium of work. I was an entry-level regulatory inspector and business liaison at the Ministry: my job was the definition of “well, it pays the bills.” I had to find ways to make work more interesting or I was going to die of boredom before I turned thirty. Running errands like this were a matter of preserving my mental health. 

I had ended up taking the lead on most of the regulatory advising for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes because Mycroft had become fed up with both the twins and the enormous amount of paperwork they generated. Before Mycroft, it had been Cynthia, then Lester, then Diana, and then Siegfried. None had lasted more than six months. Ministry regulations for magical products are absurdly complicated and the twins had additional hoops to clear owing to the sheer volume of new products that they were introducing, as well as the nature of those products. They seemed to summon exceptions to most of the rules, exceptions that were so rare that the Ministry barely bothered to cover them during training. And in addition to generating complicated paperwork, Fred and George were also not much for rules, so their approach to the entire process tended to range anywhere from good natured grumbling to genuine irritation, with George leaning more toward good natured grumbling and Fred toward genuine irritation.

I didn’t mind any of this. I liked the challenge of working out the various puzzles and exceptions that they presented and the fact that they could be surly or sour about the process didn’t bother me. In my line of work, people tend to take things much too seriously anyway, so Fred and George were a breath of fresh air. When they became annoyed with the process, I would mostly shrug and rephrase their specific complaint to fit one of the standard responses they taught me in training: _The Ministry has employed its finest masochists to make this process as fucking ridiculous as possible to ensure the safety of consumers of magical products; While we appreciate that these forms are bureaucratic fuckery, they are essential in ensuring safe and high quality products or some other bullshit; Please direct any complaints about the fucking inscrutability of this entire goddamn bullshit process to the appropriate Ministry representative at your earliest fucking convenience._ I would say any one of these things in a complete monotone with absolutely no expression. This was generally enough to break the tension and make them laugh. As frustrated as they generally were with whatever process they were trying to navigate, they at least seemed to appreciate the fact that I had a sense of humor about it.

So, overall, it was good. I liked the challenge, it was an excuse to get out of the Ministry, and they seemed to like me well enough.

The problem was that in my year of working closely with the twins, I had developed a bit of a crush on George.

This was sort of a conflict of interest. I say ‘sort of’ because the Ministry employee handbook says absolutely nothing on the topic of having a _oh-God-he’s-so-handsome, totally-aspirational-to-the-point-of-borderline-delusion_ kind of crush on someone you are working with in an official Ministry role (believe me: I had checked). And while I _was_ working with George in an official capacity, I wasn’t directly involved with whether or not any of his products got approved by the Ministry—I was just helping him find the right forms and fill them out properly. If a proper romantic relationship actually existed, that would be a different matter—I would need to declare that to the Ministry and I suspected that I might be reassigned to liaise with a different business, if only for appearances’ sake. But all of this was irrelevant, really: George hadn’t expressed any romantic interest in me, and I wasn’t about to test the waters by confessing anything because the risk of personal and professional embarrassment was simply too high.

So instead, I showed up, did my job, and tried not to spend too much time daydreaming about what George might look like without a shirt (on the clock, at least).

The typical visual chaos of the shop had been turned up threefold for Christmas. I’d been over to the shop several times that week already and it seemed there was something new each time: mistletoe zooming through the air to hover over the heads of unsuspecting customers, glass ornaments that projected incredible kaleidoscopes when they caught the light, miniature Santa Clauses that flew through the air in tiny sleighs pulled by teams of little reindeer, snow that fell from the ceiling in light, fluffy flakes that felt like tufts of cotton, garland and tinsel draped over every available surface. Everything smelled of cinnamon and cider. The dizzying displays were paired with aisles that were packed with customers, even though it was now quite near to closing. I carefully picked my way around the various displays, trying not to get distracted as I made my way to the registers. Fred was working one register, helping a customer with what looked like a rather substantial order.

“Uh oh,” he said as he noticed me approaching the counter. This was his standard greeting for me, which I found more amusing than anything else. “What’ve we done now?” 

“You haven’t done anything, actually,” I said, ignoring a woman near the front of the queue who was giving me a sour look, presumably for cutting ahead. “This time, the fault is squarely on George.” 

George stepped out of the backroom as I was saying this and ambled over to Fred’s register. “Did I just hear my name in a disapproving tone of voice?”

“You did indeed.”

“All right, what have I done this time?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

“Cocked up the forms I sent over last week.”

George scoffed. “I’d never.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, George, what do you think ‘STOP. You must sign this in front of a notary or a certified Ministry Inspector’ means? Or perhaps you noticed the note that I attached to said forms that said ‘These need to be notarized or certified by an inspector, let me know if you need me to pop by?’”

He gave me an easy smile that made my mind immediately wander to all of the things I wanted to do with him in a strictly non-work-related capacity. “Dunno, I never took Divination.”

“Technically, you failed Divination,” said Fred, finishing ringing up the customer that he had been helping and flipping the sign on his register to closed, much to the irritation of the woman at the front of the queue. 

George shrugged. “Same difference, honestly.”

I gave him a look. “It’s not Divination, just common sense. Did you fail that as well?” 

“Well, to hear my mum tell it, yes.” 

“Mum, Dad, some of our siblings, most of our teachers,” added Fred. 

“The five Ministry Inspectors before you,” said George.

“Probably some people we haven’t met as well. That woman at the head of the queue doesn’t look pleased.” Fred smiled at the customer in question. “I’ll be with you in a minute, ma’am.”

“Regardless,” I said waving my file folder and stack of forms at George, “these need to be redone tonight if you want any hope of meeting the production deadline you provided to me in your timeline.”

George sighed, pouting his lips, which was extremely distracting. “And here I was thinking that you’d popped by to wish me happy Christmas.”

“No, instead I’ve brought you the best Christmas gift of all: paperwork and a Ministry Inspector with adequate certification to witness your signature.”

He made a face. “Have you got a gift receipt for the paperwork?”

“I’m afraid there is a strict no returns policy on the gift of paperwork.” 

“Bugger.” He sighed, puffing out his cheeks. “How long is this going to take?”

“A while, probably.” 

George looked at Fred, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me, mate, I got mine notarized.”

George punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t brag. Have we got enough staff for closing if I go take care of this?”

“Verity and Simon are here, we should be fine.”

George looked back at me and I gave him my widest, cheesiest grin. “Go on, you know it’s going to be so much fun.”

He sighed again, but I could tell he was biting back a smile as he opened the door to the backrooms and offices and swept his hand forward, like he was a footman ushering me in. “Come along, Miss Ministry Inspector, let’s get this over with.”

“Have fun,” said Fred, flipping his register’s sign back to open and waving the next customer forward.

“Oh, I’m sure we will.” 

I stepped into the back corridor and was nearly hit in the face with a miniature Santa and sleigh that had evidently been trapped and was keen to get out.

“That sodding thing,” said George, making an unsuccessful swipe at the Santa as it zoomed out the door behind him. “Sorry about that. Every time I think I’ve fixed that damn thing, it breaks in a different way.”

“You sure that’s not an elaborate plot to keep you from receiving my magnificent gift of paperwork?”

He scoffed. “Please. That would hardly be an elaborate plot. I’d come up with something much more sophisticated and effective than a wayward Santa Claus.” 

“Like what?”

He gave me a mischievous grin that—once again—made it difficult for me to keep my mind on strictly work-related topics. “Well, I can’t very well _tell_ you that. That would defeat the entire purpose of an elaborate plot.”

He opened the door to his office and waved me inside. I’d always liked his office—it was this odd combination of leather and wood furniture paired with the eclectic eccentricity of the rest of the shop, all with a comfortable and homey sort of feeling. Apart from the summer months, there was always a fire crackling merrily in the hearth.

“Can I get you coffee, tea?” he asked as I shrugged out of my coat and sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Something stronger?”

I gave him a look as I took out my file folder and stack of forms. “George, I’m on the clock. You know that the only ‘something stronger’ I’m allowed to have is the regulation gin in my Ministry issued hipflask.”

“I’m not entirely certain that you’re joking and I rather like it,” he said, giving me a conspiratorial sort of grin that had my stomach filling with butterflies.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss my liquor ration with a civilian, as it is highly classified and sensitive information.” I plopped my stack of forms onto his desk. “However, what I can discuss is this glorious stack of forms.”

“I think we have a fundamental disagreement on the definition of the word ‘glorious,’” he said, sitting down in his desk chair.

“You are certainly entitled to your bad opinions,” I said, taking my box of quills out from my bag and opening it with a bit of a dramatic flair. “I even brought my fancy quills so you can have the best form filling out experience of your entire life. Personally, I’m quite partial to the eagle feather.”

“I’ll let you have that one, then,” he said with a bit of a smile, choosing the raven one instead.

“Your loss,” I said, shaking my head. I took the first form from the stack and slid it across to him. “Right, so for this one, I need this upper half of the page filled out. Everything in a grey box is for me.”

He sighed and began to write. “How is it that you became a Ministry Inspector, anyway? You’re too much of a laugh. I thought they screened for that sort of thing.”

I shrugged. “I’m good with details and navigating absurd systems with absurd rules. It’s not a common talent, so I suppose they were able to overlook the existence of a sense of humor.”

“Yes, but why put yourself through all this?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the form, as well as the stack sitting next to me.

“I’d actually like to work on improving regulatory laws someday. I was told this was a good place to start if I wanted to go that route. You know, understand how the system is broken before you try and fix it and all that.” I paused for a moment. “It can be frightfully dull, though, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.”

He glanced up from the paper and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know how you can say that when you get to spend part of your Friday night witnessing me complete Form DR-5930 Part B.”

“Well, I will say that the next time you decide to cock up paperwork that you need to meet a production deadline, I’d appreciate it if you could send it to me a little earlier than five o’clock on a Friday the week right before a major holiday.”

“I don’t know why you’re not completely thrilled about that timing.”

“I know, I’m very picky like that.” I paused for a moment, chewing my lip. “Though honestly, I do like coming down to the shop. It’s a necessary break—I’d probably be completely bats if I had to stay in the office all day.”

“Well, you’re always welcome here. I know we give you shit for stuff like this, but we do enjoy having you around. Genuinely.”

I was glad that he was back to looking at the form because I was surely blushing. “That’s sweet of you to say. You…you’re both good company.”

He glanced up and smiled—it felt a little different than the cheeky, teasing sort of smiles he’d given me earlier. “Good.”

_Do not think about what he looks like without a shirt. Do not think about what he looks like without a shirt. Do not—_

I began busying myself with my file folder, shuffling my papers like I was trying to find something important and not like I was trying to not think about a very handsome man wearing considerably fewer clothes or the fleet of butterflies that was currently occupying my stomach.

“Okay—” he said a moment later. “I think that’s everything.”

I picked up the form from the desk, mostly to give myself something to look at that wasn’t George. I skimmed his answers quickly, checking for omissions and legibility. 

“Right, this looks good.” I grabbed a quill and quickly signed and initialed my parts of the form before setting it face down next to the stack still yet to be signed. I picked up the second page and handed it to him. “Left side only on this one.”

He frowned at the form. “’Can this product be used to influence a foreign election?’ What kind of question _is_ that?”

“Do you actually want to know or are you just complaining about it for the sake of complaining?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually _know_ the answer?” 

I sighed. “George Weasley, I’m disappointed you have so little faith in me. Of course I know the answer. It has to do with Spanish election laws and a trade agreement that we signed back in the 1930s.” I shrugged. “It was a stupid political gesture, honestly. The rule itself doesn’t accomplish what it said it would and it’s been made redundant several times over by various other reforms.” 

“I never should’ve doubted you.”

“I’ll expect a formal apology written on official shop letterhead within the week.”

He smiled at me and again, I had to force myself to pretend I wasn’t completely unglued by it.

Ninety minutes passed very quickly in this fashion: George, casually chatting with me while he filled out his forms; me, trying to keep my cool every time he smiled at me. Fred popped his head in around six to say that the shop was closed up and he was heading home so his wife wouldn’t kill him.

And then it was just George and me in the office, alone with the steady scratch of the quill and the crackling of the fire in the grate. 

I was trying very, very hard not to let my mind wander.

When we came to the final form, George signed it with an elaborate flourish before flinging down the quill in a dramatic manner. “I may lose this hand,” he said sadly, flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist.

I rolled my eyes as I took the form and signed my name in the appropriate place. “Your sacrifice has been noted by the Ministry. You can expect your honorary plaque in four to six weeks.”

He frowned and made a bit of a face. “I should get more than a plaque for losing my hand, don’t you think?”

I shrugged and conjured the appropriate Ministry routing slip. “Budget cuts affect us all, George.” I stacked the papers neatly and bundled them together. “Is that fireplace connected to the Floo? It’ll save me a trip back to the Ministry if I can send it over straightaway from here.”

“Yeah, powder’s in that blue pot on the mantle.”

I felt a little sad when I watched the packet vanish in the emerald flames a moment later, bound for some inbox deep in the Ministry. My excuse for being at the joke shop had ended; now I’d have to head back to my chilly flat and grumpy cat.

“All right, you’re a free man, George Weasley,” I said. “Those should be processed Monday morning, so your application will officially be in process before the holiday. You can expect to hear back on your status within twenty-one business days.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said George, stretching and rolling his shoulders. “Thanks for doing this, by the way. I really do appreciate your help.”

“Oh, I’m happy to,” I said, trying to keep the appearance of someone who was not so easily unglued by a slightly crooked smile and light brown eyes.

The clock on the mantle chimed and George looked up, startled. “Shit, is it really seven?”

“Time flies when you’re doing paperwork,” I said, packing up my quills. “You didn’t even realize how much fun you were having.”

“Well, I had good company,” he said, and I was certain I was blushing to my toes. “Can I buy you dinner or a drink or something? I imagine you were supposed to be off work earlier in the evening than this and I’d like to make it up to you.”

It sounded like a date, but it wasn’t, I reminded myself. Probably he was just being polite.

“You’re sweet, but you don’t have to do that,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual.

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” he said. “I’m offering because it’s something that I _want_ to do.”

His tone was light and friendly, but his words still made my stomach flip. It was one of those statements that was practically begging for me to read into it excessively. I wanted it to mean more than what it likely did.

“There’s an excellent chip shop just ‘round the corner,” he said, as though my hesitation had anything to do with dinner options.

I looked at him. His eyebrows were raised, anticipating a yes…and if I was being honest, I didn’t really want to leave yet.

I sighed. “All right, fine.”

He grinned. “Excellent. Come on, we can go out the front.”

When I stepped into the corridor, I didn’t initially realize that anything had changed. But then my eye was drawn to the note that had been Spellotaped to the wall directly opposite the door. In a sloppy penmanship that I had come to know quite well, the following had been written:

> _Happy Christmas, you idiots._
> 
> _You’ll thank me for this later._
> 
> -_FW_

“What on earth does that mean?” I asked as George stepped into the hall with me.

He was looking up at the ceiling. “Think it likely has something to do with that.”

I followed his gaze upward. What looked like every single piece of floating mistletoe from the shop was hovering on the ceiling right by the office door. There was no way to avoid it.

My cheeks burned. This felt sad and desperate and the worst sort of embarrassing, even though I knew that I had nothing to do with it.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hold you to that,” I said quickly, gesturing vaguely at the mistletoe and a nervous sort of laugh bubbling in my throat.

George raised an eyebrow. “Are you genuinely suggesting not following a _rule_, Miss Ministry Inspector?”

My heart was pounding. His question had an implication that I hadn’t expected—and he didn’t seem to be joking about it. Instead, his gaze was intense and intimate in a way that made me feel a little lightheaded. I had to be misreading something, surely.

“I think it’s more of a tradition than a rule,” I said. “And I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated.”

His smile was slight. “Again, I feel the need to point out that I know it’s something I don’t _have_ to do, but it’s something that I _want_ to do.” His gaze dropped to my lips for just a second. He looked back at me. “Assuming that’s something that you also want to do, of course.” 

We had ventured into territory that was somewhere beyond my wildest dreams: George Weasley, standing in front of me and saying that he wanted to kiss me, my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.

I licked my lips, feeling a little wide-eyed and breathless. “Yeah, I—erm…I…I’d like that.”

His smile was slow and slight and left me feeling even more weak-kneed than I had previously. “Good.”

He took a step closer to me, bringing his hand up to my cheek, fingertips gently tracing the curve of my jaw, grazing the pulse point in my throat. He gazed down at me through lowered lashes, like he had all the time in the world to study my face, like I wasn’t trembling with anticipation.

He gave me a long and lingering look before slowly lowering his mouth to mine.

It started out soft and sweet, an almost chaste brush of the lips. Still, it was enough to leave me breathless and wanting more, for my hands to slide up to his shoulders to steady myself because the world felt like it was tilting on its axis. The tip of his tongue grazed my lower lip; hesitantly I mirrored this action on him and he sighed, his arms sliding around my waist to pull me closer to him. My lips parted; his tongue teased my lower lip, not advancing, seeming to dare me to be the one to pull him deeper. After a moment of this, I gave in, my tongue gliding against his, my fingers tangling in his hair. I could feel him smile and then he was giving back as good as he got, gently nudging me backwards until I was pressed against his body and the wall.

He pulled back after a moment and gently rested his forehead against mine. His breath was a little ragged, a fact which sent a rather dizzying thrill through me. 

“So,” he said.

“So.” 

He gave me another one of those slow smiles and it felt about twenty times more powerful up close. “I dunno if you caught the hint, but I’ve been thinking that I’d really like to see you outside of your official capacity as a Ministry Inspector.”

“I mean…I would hope that you don’t typically kiss Ministry representatives like that,” I said, struggling to catch my own breath.

He smiled, his gaze dropping to my lips. “No, just you. And for quality assurance purposes and the safety of you the consumer, I’m going to have to kiss you like that again.”

My laugh was muffled by his mouth covering mine. It only took a moment or so for me to become completely caught up in the kiss once again. For all the times that I’d idly daydreamed about this, the reality was dizzyingly better than I imagined. I couldn’t have imagined how his hands would feel so large and sure on the small of my back, how he smelled like something wintry and masculine, how the longer that I kissed him, the more I felt like I was about to go half wild with need. And as improbable and strange as it seemed, it appeared I wasn’t alone in this feeling, if the steadily hardening length pressing into my stomach was any indication.

Reality, though, in its most inopportune and situationally inappropriate way, was settling back into the forefront of my mind. This had rapidly accelerated from “ha! This will never be a conflict of interest,” to George kissing me breathless in the back hall of his shop and pressing against me like he wanted to venture somewhere beyond just kissing. I was overwhelmed with the sensation and newness of it all and my brain, apparently bereft of anything else to do, had latched on to the topic of the paperwork that I would need to file.

“Wait.” I pulled back a bit, trying to keep my composure. “Sorry, I erm. This is—this is excellent.” 

The corner of George’s mouth twitched slightly. “I mean, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

I could feel my cheeks burning. “Yes, very much. But I—I mean, I want to keep on with this. And I want—well, I want whatever this is leading to. I mean, we can see how it goes, I don’t need to put a label on it right away, I just really like you and kissing you and—” I was babbling, utterly nervous. At this rate, I was going to cock things up before they properly began. 

George didn’t seem bothered by my stammering or stuttering—he looked faintly amused, but there was still a gentleness in his expression that quelled the sharper edges of the anxiety brewing in my stomach. “What is it?” he asked, gently smoothing my hair. 

“This is going to sound like a joke, but—paperwork.” I swallowed. “Even though I don’t actually approve your documents, we have a professional relationship and I’m supposed to declare any relationships that might affect official Ministry business—”

“Oh, do you mean Form 8452-C: Statement of Potential Conflict of Interest for Non-Senior Level Employees?” he asked, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

I was caught slightly off guard. “Well, yes, but how—”

“Well,” he said, dropping a sweet, brief kiss on my lips, “when you find yourself developing a massive crush on a very pretty Ministry Inspector who you know in a professional capacity, you start to wonder about these things.” He gave me a slow smile. “So, I did a bit of research on Ministry personnel policy, got a copy of the appropriate form, filled out my parts, and tucked it away in my desk drawer. Fred will try to take credit for all this, but I was genuinely going to raise the subject with or without his intervention. I just wanted to make sure it wouldn’t put you in a position that jeopardized your employment.” 

I was speechless, to put it mildly. “You researched Ministry personnel policy in anticipation of this?”

He gave me another slow grin that made my toes curl. “That’s right: I willingly navigated utterly inscrutable bureaucratic nonsense, located a required form, and then willingly filled out that form because that’s how much I’ve wanted to kiss you.” His grin turned a little wicked. “You’re going to ravish me now, aren’t you? I know how much you bureaucrats love your paperwork.”

I rolled my eyes, though the idea of ravishing him was undoubtedly appealing. “Though your efforts are impressive, I think you are vastly overestimating how much I actually enjoy paperwork.” 

“So, what I’m hearing is that you haven’t ruled out ravishing me for other reasons,” he said with a sly grin as he lowered his mouth to my neck.

“I mean—” My speech was momentarily cut off as he nipped lightly at my earlobe, temporarily making thought and speech completely impossible. 

“I’ll put you down for a yes then,” he mumbled. I could feel his lips curl into a smile as he pressed languid, lazy kisses from my ear and down my neck to my collarbone. 

I was sorely tempted to let myself fall back into the distraction of his mouth on mine, let things happen as they were going to happen, but the question of the paperwork had got under my skin and I knew there was no way I was going to be able to concentrate until it was resolved.

“Look, this is going to sound absolutely mad, but would you mind if we took care of the paperwork part of this before we do anything else?” I said. “It’s just that it is better to get it turned in sooner rather than later and I’m just going to be distracted and fret about it until it’s done.” 

He lifted his head up to look at me and I was rather moved by the fact that his expression was understanding and sweet. “C’mon, it’s in my office.”

The form was in a drawer in his desk and he had indeed filled out his part of it. He sprawled rather inelegantly on the couch next to the fireplace while I sat at his desk and diligently filled out my part. It was quiet for a few minutes, save for the scratch of my quill and the ticking of the clock. I finished writing a few minutes later and read through it to make sure everything made sense. Satisfied, I conjured the appropriate routing slip. It was only when it disappeared into the emerald flames that I felt my shoulders start to relax. 

“Feel better?” asked George. 

“Much.”

“Good.” He licked his lips. “So, do you think you’ll be able to concentrate properly now?”

“I think so.” I gave him a slight smile. “Why? Did you have something in mind?”

He gave me a crooked grin. “I’ve got a few things in mind. Come here and I’ll show you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What about dinner?”

“We can order in.”

“Aren’t you going to place the order?”

“I will after. Come here.”

I was fighting a smile. “After what?”

“Come here and I’ll show you.” There was a raw want in his voice and his eyes were roving over my body in a transparently hungry way, the erection he had earlier noticeably straining at the fabric of his trousers. Combined, it was all a little too much for me to resist. I walked over to the couch, trembling with anticipation, a low and hungry ache starting to build between my legs. As soon as I was within arm’s reach, he was pulling me down into his lap, my thighs straddling his waist. He rocked his hips against me, his mouth covering mine in a searing kiss that made me whimper into his mouth. 

“Is this too forward for a first date?” he asked, as his hands slid under the hem of my jumper, stroking up the small of my back. 

A fit of brazenness suddenly seized me and I quickly peeled off my jumper, dropping it on the floor behind me. “I think we’re on the same page.”

George’s expression was some combination of wonder and naked greed. “Fuck, your tits are gorgeous,” he murmured, lowering his head to my cleavage. His hand slid behind my back and unclasped my bra before I could even think about doing it myself. My hand fisted in his hair as his lips, teeth, and tongue teased my nipples into stiff and aching points. He groaned as I rocked my hips against him, still so hard and ready.

“You feel so good,” he murmured against my breasts, hands stroking up and down the bare skin of my back. I shifted in his lap, trying to adjust my hips so that rubbing against him did a little more to relieve the growing ache between my thighs. He lifted his head to look at me, eyes lust-glazed and pupils blown.

“Are you wet for me?” he drawled with a sort of half smirk that was incredibly sexy.

“Fuck, you know I’m soaked.” 

His half smirk became a full smirk. “Well, technically, I don’t _know_, it was more of an educated guess…” He licked his lips, gaze darkening a bit. “Though I’d love to get some firsthand experience.” He ran a thumb along the waistband of my trousers. “These are going to have to go, though.”

“I’m happy to oblige,” I said, sliding off his lap and standing. I undid the button and zip and let them fall to the floor. I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my knickers.

“Leave the knickers,” he said, his voice husky. He licked his lips. “Get on top of my desk. On your back.” 

I hadn’t really thought it was possible to be more turned on than I was at that moment, but that turned the dial up another ten notches.

The wood was smooth and cool underneath my thighs as I slipped on top of the desk a moment later. George had stood and stalked over to join me, still fully clothed, which somehow made this feel more thrilling and intense. 

“On your back,” he repeated, that low and raw quality to his voice sending shivers up my spine and intensifying the ache between my legs. I lowered myself backward onto my elbows and finally down to my back. 

A large, warm hand closed around my right ankle, raising it up to lips that pressed against the tender skin right between my heel and the curve of my ankle bone. His lips trailed up my calf, then to my inner thigh, then along the crease where my thigh met my hip, pausing at my hip bone to pivot, dragging wet, open-mouthed kisses across my belly to my left hipbone. My hips thrust forward, seeking friction, relief, anticipating hands sliding my knickers off, fingers or a hot mouth sliding to my aching clit. But instead, he kissed his way from my hipbone down my left thigh, in the opposite direction of where I needed him to be.

“George,” I whimpered, reaching for him. 

“I’m trying to be very thorough,” he murmured against my thigh. 

I propped myself up on my elbows so I could look at him. “You could be less thorough with my legs and more thorough with what’s between them.”

He paused, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “On your back.” His voice had a bit of a rough edge to it that made me ache even more. 

“Or what?” I said.

“Or I’ll start over.”

“Fuck.” I eased back down with a whimper as he chuckled, resuming his path down my thigh.

It was a small eternity before he arrived at my left ankle, his actions seeming to slow as he moved lower on my body. Several times, I was half-tempted to spread my legs and start trying to bring myself off, but I suspected that the threat of starting over would likely apply in that scenario.

He was standing in between my knees, his fingertips ghosting up my thighs, my hips. He dragged his fingers lightly over my knickers. “Fuck, you’re soaked through,” he breathed.

I whimpered, thrusting my hips forward. “George, please.” 

He pressed two fingers against me, making a slow circle. The friction of the fabric against my clit was enough to provide a form of relief, but it wasn’t quite the direct stimulation that I needed. 

“You look so good like this,” he murmured, tracing another slow circle that made me moan. “All spread out and flushed, absolutely drenched, begging me to make you come.” 

“George, please…”

“I think, though—” His hand slid away and I felt him hook his thumbs under the elastic of my knickers.

“—you’re going to look even better—”

I lifted my hips and he slid my knickers off in one smooth motion.

“—completely naked—”

He dragged one long finger along my dripping sex and I moaned.

“—while I lick your pretty cunt—”

I could feel his breath between my legs, his fingers parting my folds.

“—until you can’t fucking take it anymore.”

His tongue stroked my clit and I almost wept from the sheer relief of it, moaning and arching my back. He hummed his approval, bringing my right leg over his shoulder. He was so slow and intentional to start, pressing his tongue flat against my clit and licking me in long and lazy strokes. It was so much, so rich and so good and I felt so deliciously wanton all spread out on his desk with his head between my legs. 

His pace, so slow to start, gradually began to increase to a more rhythmic pulse, his tongue rolling over and over my clit. A tingling sort of heat was beginning to build low in my belly and along my sternum. He slid one long, clever finger into me and crooked it toward him and the combination of that and his tongue laving sinful alphabets on my clit began to build toward an unbearably pleasurable crescendo. The sounds I was making were now truly indecent and what words I could get out were garbled pleas for release. 

He added a second finger and the scales tipped: my back arched, my hips thrust and I cried out as waves of pleasure finally crested and I came hard.

But he didn’t stop—his fingers still thrusting and rubbing in me, his tongue stroking me lighter than before. I was so sensitive, but still so turned on, and his fingers were still hitting that magnificent spot inside of me and his tongue was so light and careful on my throbbing clit and my body was tensing again and suddenly I was hitting a new peak and coming again, harder this time, my hands tangling in his hair. 

“Fuck,” was the first intelligible thing I managed to say a minute later, after I caught my breath, my body still trembling with the aftershocks. George lifted his head from between my legs with a low laugh and a smirk that said he was entirely too pleased with himself (which granted: he should be). He gently grabbed my wrists and pulled me into a sitting position. His hair was mussed, sticking up in all directions. He kissed me, his mouth salty-sweet with the taste of me.

“You are incredible,” he murmured, “and I am never going to be able to properly concentrate at this desk again.”

“This was all your idea.”

He laughed quietly. “I wasn’t complaining.” He kissed me again, his hand cupping my cheek. Feeling a little bold, I let my hand drift down to his belt buckle, my fingertips lightly grazing his stomach. He sucked in a deep breath, gently guiding my hand to the bulge of his cock.

“Shall we add the couch to that list of furniture I won’t be able to look the same way at again?” he asked, his voice thick. “I want you on top and I think that’s likely the most comfortable place for it.”

I smiled leaning in to kiss him. “If you can give me a moment to get my legs back, yes I think that sounds lovely.” I eyed him with a raised eyebrow. “Though I think you’re a bit overdressed.”

He grinned, pulling away. “I’ll work on fixing that.”

He walked over to the couch and began to undress, pulling off his shirt to reveal a chest that was lean and well-muscled and peppered with a smattering of coppery red hair. He looked at me as he undid his belt, shucking off his trousers and boxers in one go. He held my gaze, seemingly daring me to let it drop to the obvious part. After a moment, I let my eyes drop and my lips parted of their own accord as I confirmed what I had suspected: he had a really nice cock. It was a good length and thick, and already so hard. I felt that ache starting again in my hips and I slid off the desk and walked across the room to him. 

He pulled me to him and I wasn’t quite prepared for how good it would feel to have my bare skin pressed against his, the heavy heat of his cock pressing against my stomach. I kissed him for a moment before sinking to my knees, sliding my lips and tongue over the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his hand tangling in my hair. I swirled my tongue over the head, curling my hand around him. He was too big to take entirely in my mouth, but I did my best and he didn’t seem to have any objections. 

He didn’t let me stay there for very long though, before he was gently pulling me back up to him.

“Listen,” he said somewhat breathlessly, “you are extremely good at that and I would like to explore that talent further on another occasion, but if you keep at it, I’m going to lose it and I really want to fuck you properly.” 

I shivered and kissed him. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

He grinned and sat down on the couch, pulling me with him. I straddled him, rubbing the head of his cock up and down my slit a few times before positioning myself over him and slowly sinking down.

My head tipped back and we both groaned. It was a little bit of a stretch to accommodate him, but it was a good stretch, a pleasant sort of fullness that seemed to reach all of the parts that made me see stars. I leaned forward and he captured my lips in a very slow kiss.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he murmured, his hands cupping my cheeks, sliding down to my breasts and then my hips.

The rhythm we found was a slow rocking of the hips, intentional and intimate in its motion. His hands cupped my cheeks, my breasts, while he murmured about how tight I was, how good I felt, how long he’d wanted to do just this. I used his shoulders to rock against him, telling him how he filled me, how thick he was, how no one had ever made me come like that before. Toward the end, his hand slid in between our bodies to gently rub my mons against my clit until I came a third time, my tightening muscles tipping him over the edge with me.

We lay there gasping for a few minutes, trying to catch our breaths, still tangled up together. 

Finally, George spoke.

“I am so incredibly glad that I fucked up that paperwork.” 

* * *

Depending on who you ask, the first wedding anniversary is the paper anniversary or the cotton anniversary.

For me, it’s always been paper—largely because for our first wedding anniversary, George had Fred’s note framed and hung in front of the office door. When people asked about it, we would tell them about the kiss that had happened under the mistletoe. 

What had transpired in his office after, well: they didn’t need to know about that.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what it is about George Weasley that makes me think "you know what he needs to be part of? Some holiday smut with a fluffy ending set in or around his office at the joke shop" but I've now written two one shots on a similar theme so this is either my wheelhouse or I need more therapy (or both?)


End file.
